Sword of Kings
by bamftastik
Summary: After her return to Ostagar, Tabris thinks back on the strange human king.


The blade lay heavy across her lap, her fingers idly tracing the runes as she stared into the fire. There was memory there, fresh recollection, the outline of an upturned face behind the flames. She blinked, the vision fading. A cookfire, nothing more.

Still she could imagine she saw it, the smoke lingering above those distant and crumbling battlements, last whisper of that evening's pyre. No one had objected when they moved beyond the ruins to make camp.

Her hand strayed now to the hilt, fingers tightening round the pommel. It was a magnificent sword; the darkspawn that she had killed that day could attest to the fact. A sword of gold, a sword of kings, worth more than the hand that held it. And yet she had taken it up, given it its vengeance as she had taken hers. She could have left it in that place – _should_ have left it – to find some peace beside its master in the flames.

It came to her again, then, that strange encounter on the road. Duncan had been kind enough, a human once trusted by her mother, never pressing her for comfort or conversation despite their journey's long hours. But these others… there had been so many of them. She had spotted their lord instantly, the swagger, the expectant smile setting her to stiffening before he could even raise his hand. Human lords she had known; what price then would a human king demand? And yet all he had asked had been her name.

Letting her eyes fall closed, she turned from the ruins. No, she had not given him her name, had made no effort to hide her sneer. And he had only laughed, turning that eager smile instead to Duncan. Curiosity, yes, but there had been no malice, no mockery. Strange, this human king.

She had fallen into step behind them, that familiar and bitter deference, listening to the talk of these great humans, of their great war. Even beneath Duncan's repeated admonitions, the king's smile had not faltered. Young, proud, eager, a fool in gilded plate. She had not been alone in her opinion.

There was blood still on the blade, she saw, just below the hilt. Pinching a piece of her sleeve, she wiped it clean. Perfect.

Twice she had risked her life before they met again. Summoned, she had been, the council already underway. And still the king had smiled for her, offered his congratulations. But her eyes had been only for the Teryn, for Loghain, the old suspicions stirring again. It was only the way of them, she had told herself, only that old distrust. She had pushed it aside, held her tongue. Was this guilt then?

The mission had been simple, insulting, and on _this_ she had spoken. Now though, now she understood. That strange human had held her eye, asked of her this simple thing. That human had saved her life.

Again she looked to those distant and looming shadows. Days later it had been, the smoke still choking thick round those battered towers. But standing beside the witch's hut, her wounds still stiff and bitter, she could remember that smile. None had survived, they had said. In that moment, she had pitied him.

She looked to Alistair now, standing across the fire, shrugging awkwardly as Leliana helped him slip the breastplate over his head. He had told her little enough of his brother, but there had been something more than surprise there when they had found the first piece of armor. It fit perfectly, but she should have expected as much. He, though, only shook his head, running disbelieving hands across his chest, over the inlay there. It suited him. Leliana must have said as much, for his scowl deepened as she laughed.

Breastplate, boots, greaves, helm and shield. He needed only the sword to complete the picture, the ghost of a king. Looking to her now, his smile came sheepish.

She rose quick, weighing the blade across her hands, hesitating still. Staring up at him, she blinked. That smile… it was the same. They had only shared a father but, here, beneath the shifting glow of the flames… She shook her head. "You look…"

"Don't say it. Please don't say it."

"…Kingly."

"Ugh. See? I knew you were gonna say it." He put a hand to his head, but still the grin held, the game familiar. Slowly his eyes rose to meet her smirk.

"Really, though. It suits you."

He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm not Cailan. I don't _want_ to be Cailan."

She could see it flicker behind his eyes, that last memory stirring.

If she had pitied him before, there was no word for today's horror. The darkspawn… stripped he had been, strung up upon the bridge to overlook his would-be field of glory. An edifice, perhaps, but by the arrows she would guess that their archers had been keeping practiced. The cold had encircled Ostagar, sealing the tomb, preserving this final horror. She supposed for that, at least, they should be grateful.

Alistair had boosted her up, her hands finding purchase on those frozen shafts, tugging them free one by one. Her face had been only inches from his, from Cailan's, so strangely peaceful even now. It was the closest she had been to a human man since… The last arrow pulled free, she had slipped away, lowering him into Alistair's waiting arms.

They had built the pyre where his tent had been, there amongst the ruins, the last decency they could afford this king of men. But she had turned away from the flames, from that face, the memory already etched hard and cold.

Alistair was watching her, following her thoughts perhaps. With a sigh, she shook her head. "Here."

Still he stood stiff, blinking down at the sword.

"It was King Maric's once; Duncan told me. It was your father's."

Slowly she shook his head. Beside his pack rested another sword, wrenched from the body of the risen beast, the necromancer's ogre. Plain it was, unadorned and strangely tapered. "As was this."

"Duncan's."

He nodded.

"Then what will we do with this?"

"Keep it." Something of his grin had returned. "It suits you."

"That's not fair."

He lay his hand over hers, resting still across the pommel. "It does. Or think of it as a gift. For what you did for Cailan today."

Something burned behind her eyes, blinked away as she scowled. "I did nothing."

Alistair smiled then, laying a kiss against her forehead. For once, she did not stiffen. "You did."

It was only slowly that she made her way back to the fire, sitting again with the blade across her knees. Cailan's sword. Her sword.

Zevran curled beside her, grin coming easy. "It is indeed a sexy sword. Are you sure I cannot have it?"

Chucking beneath her breath, the smile came at last. "No… no, I think I'll keep it."


End file.
